What Else Is True
by TheLongStreet
Summary: House thinks he's seeing things. Is the vicodin finally getting to him or does love really make men go mad?


Title: What Else Is True

Author: TheLongStreet

Pairing: James Wilson/ Gregory House

Disclaimer: Regrettably, these gentlemen do not belong to me. No copyright infringement is intended.

Some nights, Greg House could see the castle out his porch window. Unusual as it seemed, it never bothered him. The dark grey shape loomed out of the sunset on a fairly regular basis, generally when he'd had a bad day, or taken too many Vicodin (according to _some_. House still maintained the belief that unless you were puking out through your ears and eyeballs it wasn't too much). It was never alarming; in fact, the image blossomed out of the horizon like a small and reasonably harmless tumor, benign but inoperable. In other words, it didn't bother him, but there was nothing he could do about it either. Some days it was there, and some days it wasn't. Rather inconsistent for a building, but pretty regular behavior for humans as far as House was concerned, and if there was one thing he was an expert at ignoring, it was humans.

Because House was House, and also a colossal pain in the ass, he never told anyone about the thin lonely structure that occupied his window more often than not. It never occurred to him that the fact that he was having medieval delusions ought to indicate something. Like, he was going crazy, or his life sucked, or something. But the castle's presence hardly affected him at all, if only that it got him out onto his back porch bit more often than he used to. And maybe, every once in a while, it forced a feeling out of him that he immediately rejected, when he was thinking of words to describe his solid company. Words like old, lonely, and out of place. _Just like you, _a voice disturbingly akin to his father's tinned brightly inside his head.

That made House think about opening the window and jumping off the parapet. Not because it was true, God no, but for thinking such a pansy, sentimental thing. A man ought to be able to control what goes on in his own head, at the very least, in a world that in House's experience wanted nothing but to order him around, chain him with rules and make him into someone he was not. Someone he'd never intended. Something emotional; something obsequious, and strange.

And because House was House, he never expected anyone else to be able to see it.

In the first few weeks after Julie left, it was too cold for either of them to go onto the porch. His flat wasn't small, after all, and there was plenty to do indoors, though most of the stuff they did together House was pretty sure they could do anywhere. And in sheepish retrospection House decided he probably did want that to sound exactly as perverted as it did. The only thing he loved equally as well as solving puzzles was yanking Jimmy's chain, and if that wanted to sound dirty too, House was perfectly content to let it.

His favorite hooker was always advising him to let Jimmy in on his little secret, that irrepressible desire that existed alongside all the insatiables. Most things House wanted he wasn't very likely to get. He could remember the way it felt to slam a ball into a net with his lacrosse stick, how it felt to coast on a runners high, to hold Stacey's hand. He couldn't remember what it felt like to be whole, and privately suspected that some bloke in Indonesia was strutting about with roughly one and three quarters souls, completely unaware that not all of that heavenly, righteous booty was technically rightfully his. Not that House wanted it back or anything. Ew, spiritual leftovers. He'd rather have one of Wilson's stuffed peppers.

The hooker had wanted to make a distinction. There was reason Wilson had to sleep on the couch, and a reason House carried a cane, but they were not the same reason, and, if handled correctly, only one of them needed to cause crippling. House was tempted to mention that there was a reason she was a hooker, too, but then he recalled the size of her forearms and decided against it. It's tricky business working a cane when your arm's in a sling.

So House sent Wilson back to the sofa evening after evening until the weather grew warm enough to spend time outside. Time outside meant time apart, and House found himself missing the late night television marathons and the piping bowls of soup his best friend had prepared when the snow fell thickly all around them, silencing everything: Cuddy's harpish nagging, Cameron's pointless worrying, his father's ceaseless doubts. Every time Wilson wandered in with the scent of April on him, House felt an animalistic, wordless terror rise up inside of him, crushing his heart between broad brown palms. When this happened he would pop a Vicodin and tell his friend he was taking care of it, he didn't need those brown gooey eyes glued to his. Everything was fine.

At last, the tentative warmth began to show signs that it was staying. The fine winter whistle dropped off to a sensitive whisper and a cheerful spring breeze picked up torque, roaring over the Mexican border faster than truckload of illegal immigrants with a whole fleet of cops on their bumper, heating up the atmosphere, making the world seem sticky and close. House lived in eternal terror that Wilson would return some afternoon with the ever so familiar glaze of spring love in his eyes, like so many other idiots House worked with.

It was Wilson who suggested they go out onto the porch one night to watch the sunset. He'd cooked House a delicious Italian dinner, paired with an expensive wine he'd purchased in one of his away-hours, which House was quickly coming to resent but was willing to forgive just this once. He hadn't even complained about the dishes! Either House was about to get laid, or Wilson had just gotten an enormous raise. He wondered what he'd said to Cuddy to get her to agree. House figured it was pretty selfish of Jimmy not to cut his best friend in on the deal.

_What's that there?_ Wilson asked curiously, raising his arm to point out across the horizon so that the sleeve of his blue work shirt, rolled to the elbow to combat the rising thermostat, tickled House's cheek in a pleasant sort of manner that reminded House of Stacey in an aching, unique way he hadn't remembered trying to forget.

_What's what, _House asked distractedly, squinting into the setting sun.

_That black smudge. Is that a castle? _The boyish excitement in his voice made House grin wolfishly, wondering how he'd ever missed it.

_Take it easy there, little tyke, _he drawled loosely, wondering how it was that Wilson could see it. _It's probably just an industrial building. _

_No. No, I'm sure that's a castle. Must be a historic site, we should look it up! _In response to House's silence Wilson just smiled a little and relaxed his shoulders, turning his face into the warm wind, the sun bright on his eyelids as they fluttered closed for a moment. _I wonder that we never noticed it before, _he exclaimed, turning again toward the structure with awe, his voice holding a note that implied House _could _have shared this with him, since he lived here, and obviously knew about it.

_It's not that cool. _House shrugged eventually, feeling oddly relieved that Wilson had seen it, now. _I didn't think you'd care about some old building._

_But look at it, _Wilson protested, _it's beautiful. Like you, _he whispered softly, but House knew that this time it wasn't in his head.

_What did you say? _He asked sharply, feeling something expanding in his chest. It hurt and he gritted his teeth against the pain but he didn't want it to go away, just like he didn't want Wilson to go away, not ever.

_House!_ Wilson stammered, sounding alarmed. _Are you okay? I'm s-s-sorry I said that, alright? I-I'll t-try to stop, I'll-_

But House was kissing him then, in front of the flaming sunset, guessing that the charring sensation in his ribcage wasn't a heart attack but rather the strangely exhilarating feeling of something burning away, and he let golden smoke pour in and out between them as they shared the moment, House figuring that answering with your mouth was basically the same thing as saying it out loud, I love you, except your tongue did a bit more of the talking.

_W-well that was cliché, _Wilson stammered eventually, and House noted that he was still stuttering, presumably for different reasons. He grinned gleefully, wondering if the balloon in his chest would ever pop. He wondered if he should call up Cuddy and let her know he was thinking about swallowing her head of oncology whole, so that they could get the paramedics out here on the off chance that he didn't go down smoothly.

_You know, I think you're every bit as crazy as I am, _he said, staring out at the castle, shimmering in the sun. _Should we take the 'vette up there for our honeymoon, darling?_

_C-couldn't we just have sex in your bedroom? _Wilson asked a bit breathlessly, reaching out to touch his hip tenderly with one trembling hand. House followed his best friend obediently inside, feeling blissfully at ease, his distress about the castle fading rapidly from his mind. Wilson's lips against his wrist quickly fostered a conviction: that it didn't matter what else was true, so long as this was.


End file.
